


The Good Kind

by s_t_c_s



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: F/M, Filth, Mutual Masturbation, Phone Sex, Semi-public masturbation, beth has a thing for rio's voice and she is not alone, liberal use of the f word, rio has always had a thing for beth's car, vague attempt to make some sense of that finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 02:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19053508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_t_c_s/pseuds/s_t_c_s
Summary: “Y’said the hard on Turner’s got for you ain’t the good kind,” he presses on. She supposes she did just say that, didn’t she. “So what exactly’s the good kind?”





	The Good Kind

**Author's Note:**

> Set during 213, between Beth and Rio's phone conversation when she'd broken into his (now empty) loft and the denouement of the season.
> 
> Inspired by the fact that they sounded like they weren't far off having phone sex during that convo and mostly irredeemable filth. But also sort of an attempt to see how their dynamic could possibly get pushed to what we saw at the end of the episode. (Yeah I had problems with the ending of the ep too, quelle surprise.)

She’s already pushed her way out of the building and is making her way down the street, long legs eating up the distance fast. She’s enjoying being unfettered by anyone who’d slow her down – doesn’t get the opportunity to walk like this all that often. Then, suddenly, her phone’s ringing again.

She huffs under her breath and grabs at it in her pocket. Beth always keeps her phone close now, can’t remember the last time she carelessly dropped it into the depths of her purse. Paranoia and fear have been suffusing her every waking moment, if there’s an update on _anything_ she wants to know about it. She idly recalls the many times Annie’s accused her of being a control freak and privately accedes that perhaps her younger sister wasn’t just trying to insult her, she may’ve had a point…

Reaching for her cell barely causes a break in her stride but it’s when her eyes fall to the caller ID displayed that she slows right up thoughtfully.

It’s a blocked number again, assumedly the same one, assumedly _him_ again. She momentarily toys with ignoring him, with being petty – after all she knows that it’s a certain way to get a rise out of him. (Is reminded that being ignored is a sure-fire way to get a rise out of her too, and some ventricle deep inside of her seems to clench at that stray thought.)

But _no_ – if there’s even a chance that he’s reconsidered helping her out with the money, or if there’s a possibility that he’s warning her about something that she needs to know about again…

So she takes a deep breath and answers with what she hopes is a firm yet unantagonistic, “Yep.” in lieu of an actual greeting.

As she answers the call she starts walking quickly again, not quite at her breakneck speed of a moment ago (figures she’ll need her breath as well as her wits for this conversation) but her heels are clicking pointedly against the sidewalk, other pedestrians seem to be flowing around her rather than her ever needing to get out of their way. It makes her feel purposeful, maybe a little powerful even.

“So what’s the good kind?” he asks, and it _is_ him, of course it’s him. She thinks his tone still sounds pleasant but that maybe there’s an edge there too, underneath. But she’d already started embracing the fact that maybe she can’t read him as well as she thought, that maybe she can’t read him at all.

“What?” she says bluntly. It’s not _rude_ exactly, the way she says it, but it’s not exactly polite either.

“Y’said the hard on Turner’s got for you ain’t the good kind,” he presses on. She supposes she did just say that, didn’t she. “So what exactly’s the good kind?”

“Why?” she snaps. “You jealous?” She doesn’t have _time_ for this.

She _hears_ him smile through the phone, she could swear that she does. There’s this tiny puff of an exhale as his face reshapes itself in response to her. She can picture the grin he must be wearing now perfectly in her mind – toothy and feral and hard and challenging. Somehow knowing him so well and not knowing him at all is something she hates more than she knew she had the capacity for. It makes her want to scream in frustration. It makes her want to peel off every inch of her skin.

“Oh come on sweetheart,” he practically drawls, amusement rich in his voice. “Don’t be like that.”

She hates the way he’s speaking to her, hates his stupid nicknames for her. There was a time, quite a long stretch of time in fact, when she’d grown to like them but not now. Now they smack of a false intimacy again, like they had back when the two of them had only just met. It’s worse now though by a long shot – she thought that intimacy had become earned but now it seems like he can’t walk out of her life fast enough.

She’d really _liked_ him, that’s the worst part, and he’s made it clear that it all meant nothing to him. Hearing these stupid endearments from his lips makes her feel even more like she’s just another notch; just another screw. It smacks of mockery, and he’s spent enough time mocking her one way or another thank you very much.

“Elizabeth,” he prompts. And that’s even worse than the stupid pet names! Her blood feels like it’s boiling, anger pinging around inside her, finding different targets though they’re all the part of the same problem in truth. But irritation isn’t the only thing unfurling deep in her belly. She still just _wants him_ so much, so plainly and so stupidly, her body giving her away at least to herself. If that’s not the most annoying thing in the world then she’s not sure what is.

“What do you want me to say?” she asks, annoyed and prickly. “That the good kind is… one you’d want to-”, she pauses, lowering her voice and abruptly turning into a less busy side street, “sit on?”. She can feel a flush rising on the back of her neck but she pushes herself to carry on. “That you’re the best I’ve ever had? That you’re _so_ big and manly? That I want you _right now_? That I’d love to suck your dick again?” She forces her tone to stay bored and teasing, smirking and rolling her eyes as she hisses into her phone.

“Sounds like a good start,” he agrees, languid and unfazed. Then, “where are you?”

“What, you don’t have a camera on me now?” she snaps.

“Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t,” he answers, his voice dipping sinfully low, and it’s _doing things_ to her and she _really does not have the time for this_ goddammit.

“I’m just walking to my car.” she says, shaking her head a little in an attempt to clear it, trying to get herself and especially her traitorous legs to focus on doing just that again.

“Park further away this time?” he asks, and she can picture this too, the exact annoying sneer that must be adorning his stupid face right now. The worst part was that he wasn’t wrong, she had. Her stalking debacle had kind of stung and she’d wanted to do a better job of sneaking into his place this time. Not that had been much use! He’d packed up his entire life and left before she even got there, and worse he’d been tipped off to her presence by his cameras and _had those cameras always been there_? Is that how he’d known she was there last time or- and ok she’s spiralling, she realises.

Beth pulls the phone away from her mouth for a moment so she can take a couple of deep if shaky breaths but suddenly she can hear him talking again, “you near your car, darling?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she says, non-committally, because _yeah_ she has nearly made it to the discrete parking spot she’d sought out. It’s not so far from the apartment but it’s definitely a different neighbourhood, more industrial, much quieter. She can’t see many other cars around here still, and she can’t see anyone else out and about walking.

“Ok,” he says and is that… is that eagerness she hears in his voice? “When you got in your car I want you to touch yourself for me.” he says it like it’s nothing, like he’s asking a friend to pick him up a snack.

“ _What_?” she spits immediately. Lust and anger are still duelling low in her belly, shocked confusion adding itself to that potent cocktail of emotions.

He laughs softly and then he’s saying: “Oh, come on-”, and why is he always saying variations of that to her, huh?! Always prodding and pushing her further and further out of her comfort zone. “’Snot like I can come see you right now. I’m a little, uh, tied up.”

She’s immediately preoccupied with a new mental image that’s risen unbidden – he’s prowling towards her, tightening a rope in his hands with a truly _evil_ smile playing around his lips and dancing in his eyes. She tries to ignore it, to focus on if that could mean that he actually has someone tied up right now ( _he’s dangerous_ some part of her brain is trying to remind her), and if that means he’s got the exact same eyerollingly shitty sense of humour as Ruby, probably thinks he’s god’s gift to comedy just like her best friend does too ( _well we can be dangerous too_ some other part of her brain is crowing, thinking of how they dealt with Mary Pat).

The phrase boss bitch echoes in her mind suddenly, another one of his names for her. It’s a mocking refrain though.

“Promise to make it good for you. So good, darling.” And she thinks… she thinks that he sounds sincere?

She’s just so _tired_ , more so than that time she broke down and told him that knowing him was like having a newborn. She’s finding it hard to summon up the energy to comb through every one of his cryptic statements for clues right now.

He always seems to be composed of so much barely contained swirling energy – like he could keep up at their battles of wits, or their fucking against a wall, forever and barely break a sweat.

_Yeah well he doesn’t have four kids and an idiot ex-husband waiting for him at home_ , one of those little voices in her head pipes up. Though as far as she knows he might not even have a home any more! Did he move out because she’d found where he lived, or was it because the FBI are closing in or does he move all the time or… huh she’s definitely spiralling again.

At least she’s made it to her car finally, she leans against it for a few seconds before going to open the door. She’s still got the phone pressed to her ear but Rio’s not saying anything. She knows he’s still there though because she can hear him breathing, evenly, patiently.

The sound of the door shutting once she’s inside her car seems to bring him back to life though. “Can you please give your nipples a quick squeeze for me at least? I miss your tits.” It’s just out of left field enough, weirdly sweet and genuine sounding, that she thinks _well why not_? And then she’s divesting herself of her of her jacket and her chunky purse, roughly pinching at her nipples through her clothes. It shouldn’t really be enough of anything, through those layers, but she can’t hold back a teeny noise. It wasn’t even really a moan, just a small sound of something akin to appreciation rising in the back of her throat.

Maybe that’s how he knows her has her, or maybe he always knew he did but suddenly he’s talking again, sounding practised and smooth. “Come on ma, lemme do this for you. Sounds like you having a rough day.”

Well, _that’s_ an understatement if ever she heard one. But maybe he really does mean it and he wants to help her feel better? Or maybe the empty loft was a clear sign that he’s packing up and moving on and she’s never going to see him again… could this be a goodbye? Or maybe he just loves to mess with her, and this is just another game? Or maybe he’s just curious to find out how far he can push her? Beth’s pretty sure she doesn’t want to know the answer to that last question, she’s scared to find out that the answer might be _to anywhere_.

She locks her car and looks around surreptitiously again – there’s still no one around. She drops her cell to the seat next to her, puts the call on speaker and checks that the volume isn’t up too high. Then she’s setting about reclining her seat and dropping her jacket over her lap like a blanket, wanting to be hidden if anyone did wander past.

Shrugging a little to herself she sits back up, pulls her bra off nimbly from under her shirt and chucks it somewhere into the back. Then she settles back down into her reclined seat, getting comfy.

He’s not been speaking while she’s been moving around, she reckons he could tell she was setting up? She can still hear him breathing, always so, so steady. So she decides to speak, to signal that she’s… what, ready? That doesn’t feel like the right word for how she’s feeling! She settles on: “I can’t believe I’m going to do this.”

“Oh, I can.” He responds, straight away. He always seems so _prepared_ for her, the fact that he’s still so adamant that he knows her, that he can predict her almost snatches Beth’s breath from her. “Remember that time you fucked me in a bathroom with your dumbass husband just outside?”

She does recall that, obviously, and she sort of gets his point, and her hands are back at her breasts though she doesn’t remember moving them, and she’s pinching at her nipples again but more gently this time. She’s glad she took her bra off, that’s about as far as she’s willing to analyse what’s happening right now.

“Remember how I fucked you so good?” he asks, and he still sounds too slick too practised at this but maybe that’s just how he always sounds, cocky and confident, because she thinks she can hear something too eager there too, underneath.

“Yeah, but you’re not here.” she’s proud of how it comes out, it’s not petulant or needy, more like a mere statement of fact.

“Got your hands in your panties yet?” She’s about to tell him not to say panties again but he steamrollers her by ploughing on, “c’mon, get a finger on your clit – start gentle. Like it’s my tongue. And one in your pussy – you wet for me already, Elizabeth?”

There were a lot of words there that she’s kind of itching to tell him not to say again, aghast. But. She also kind of wants to hear him say them again, a lot.

Beth lets out a frustrated noise that she doesn’t think sounds very sexy at all, but his laugh off of that sounds warm and encouraging so she forces her thighs apart. She’d been tensing them unconsciously, searching for pressure, something to relieve the tension building there.

She undoes her jeans, deliberately going slowly with the zipper. She wants him to hear it. Once she gets a hand into her underwear she does get a finger against her aching bud immediately, and she can’t help the groans that start. They’re not loud, small little noises that she’s incapable of containing.

“Yeah, c’mon Elizabeth,” he says encouragingly. His voice isn’t that loud, but there’s no other sounds apart from the breathy ones she’s making, getting more harsh and guttural but still quiet. His voice is filling her mind entirely and she’s eager for that to happen now, wants everything else pushed away. “You gonna tell me if you’re wet already hmm?”

She’s re-angling her hips, fingers trailing down between her lips so she can feel how slick she is, and then she’s pressing a finger against her entrance – more teasing herself than anything else, not quite thrusting in just yet. But she misses her touch against her clit, decides he was right that this is a two handed job. So she gets her left index finger playing gently with that bundle of nerves, while she shoves a finger from her right hand inside of herself, starting to thrust in and out. She dimly remembers that she hasn’t answered his question.

“What the fuck do you think?” she goes with, it’s breathy and entirely without venom, but it’s a great old standard of a response when you’re not sure what else to say.

“That you’re completely sodden.” he says, and that probably shouldn’t sound so filthily delicious to her but oh, it _really_ does. “But when’d it start?” his tone seems weird, almost clinical, falsely friendly. It reminds her of him calling her his partner outside Jane’s dance recital. “When you got your hands in there? Or when you said you wanna suck my dick? Or back when I was talking ‘bout brushing your hair out your face? Or when you were sneaking in through my window like a naughty little girl, hmm?”

“Yeah.” she agrees, mindlessly, because, well, yeah.

“Yeah.” he echoes, and he does sound kind of amused but he also sounds a little wrecked and a lot turned on.

Some part of her brain is trying to catalogue all these responses and thoughts but everything’s happening so fast and it’s all _so much_ , maybe too much. She’s still rutting desperately against her hand, she knows she’s not close to coming yet but she can feel her orgasm building rhythmically, slow and steady.

“Y’know what I’d be doing if I was there?” he asks, tone back to that purposefully seductive one.

His words reach her as if through a fog. “Pissing me off?” she suggests, slowly. She’s blinking a lot, she realises.

She doesn’t know what she’d call that noise he makes in response to that, but it’s familiar and fond and she doesn’t want to think any more, thinking is a dangerous game. She just wants to _feel_ and she only wants to feel good.

“I’d’ve draped you over my face, maybe in the backseat,” he’s saying and she can definitely work with that. “I’d be sucking on your clit and sticking my tongue deep deep inside you. Reaching up to play with those pretty titties.”

He would, she believes him. That time she fucked him in her bedroom, when they’d had all that time, she got quite a good sense of his proclivities at least. She thinks he just loves making women come. He couldn’t seem to get enough time with his head between her legs.

“Y’know I like that mama van of yours but it ain’t got enough space to fuck you how I wanna, and that’s a shame.” He sounds like he could be musing on the weather or anything mostly, but there’s still this weird edge to his words like he’s holding himself back somehow.

Something clicks in the haze surrounding her brain. “Are you not- aren’t you touching yourself?” she asks.

He’s silent momentarily. Then, “d’you want me to?”

She doesn’t hesitate, not at all, before she grinds out a long, drawn out “yesss”. Then distantly she’s hearing the shuffling of clothes, his fly being opened, now the quiet slap of skin on skin.

“So how do you want to fuck me?” she asks, mostly because she wants him talking again. It’s almost too intimate what they’re doing without words. But also because she wants to know the answer.

“Oh you know me, I like fucking you any which way,” he says at first, which again she kind of _did_ know. “But I do love doing you from behind.” And she knew that too, she supposes, it’d kind of become their staple.

“And you love it too, yeah?” he presses on. “There’s something about being pressed against your beautiful ass-” he chokes on a moan. “Having your tits and your clit spread out in front of me, that easy access, _mmm_ … wanna do that in front of a mirror again. But naked. Want us to see everything.”

The mental image he’s conjuring up for her is _dirty_ but it’s also weirdly intimate. She’s groaning more loudly now, wonders if he can hear how her fingers are _squelching_ as she thrusts two of them in and out of her.

“But if I was _there_ , after fucking you with my mouth and making you come a coupla times,” he continues, still saying these things so _easily_ like it costs him nothing, her cunt is clenching around those fingers as she continues fucking herself on them, “I’d have you in my lap and put you on my good hard on.”

She’s blushing so much brighter at him bringing up what she’d said earlier, but she’s grinning too. She’s close, she realises, adding another finger.

“And I’d let you set the pace, fucking yourself onto me. Me biting at your nips. And when you were close I’d take over, speed it the fuck up till you’re mewling and begging, and when you finished coming think I’d lie you down on that back seat and come all over those perfect tits. Then we’d see if you could lick it all off.”

She can’t stop groaning it seems and suddenly she’s coming _so hard_ , this idea of herself lifting one of her spattered breasts and delicately licking at the mess seared into her brain. It’s not something she’s ever thought she wanted but somehow, combined with his voice and what they’ve been doing, it’s suddenly the hottest thing she’s ever heard of.

It’s not until she’s started coming down from her orgasm, removing her fingers from herself gingerly (she’s still got one on her clit, rubbing idly through the aftershocks) and seeing just how _fucking soaked_ her hand is which causes her to mutter “ _jesus fucking christ_ ” that she hears his breath stuttering and really speeding up. She knows he’s coming, she can tell. There’s no vocal fanfare, he’s not moaning and groaning like she was but, and even though it’s quiet she is certain that she heard it, there’s her name on his lips again, just once, as he finishes.

They bask in the afterglow for a moment, just breathing, no words. Then she’s digging in her purse for tissues, and grabbing for her jacket so she can button it up to hide her bralessness. She hears rustling on the other end, figures he’s cleaning up too.

“You good?” he asks, not wary exactly but cautious.

And… well she’s not, not by a long shot. She’s about to be arrested for murder and she has _no plan_ for getting out of it. But she also knows that that’s not what he’s asking about right now.

“Yeah.” she says quietly. She let him push at her boundaries once again, but maybe she’s not mad about it. Maybe she needed that. Maybe they both did.

She’s no closer to finding a solution to her Boomer problem but at least she feels more relaxed, her head has stopped pounding. “Tired now.” she adds, after a small pause.

“Yeah, get some rest.” He says it kind of breezily, but she absolutely can’t find the energy to think about what that could possibly mean, she won’t. “See ya.” he adds.

She doesn’t say anything further before reaching for her phone and disconnecting the call. She’s not really sure if that was a threat, a promise or a goodbye. She’s too tired to care much about it now.

She just wants to get home, have a shower, a drink, maybe a nap. She’s eager to sit on her sofa for a moment and watch some crappy TV. Maybe if she has a minute to think she can come up with another solution to her Boomer problem, or another way to get him the money.

She pulls her seat back up, fishes out her keys and begins driving home. Somehow even without an actual plan she’s starting to feel purposeful again, a little powerful even. She catches her reflection in the mirror, there’s a lazy smile on her face which is threatening to break into a huge grin and her eyes are bright. She feels like maybe deep in her subconscious some dots are starting to get connected as they’re wont to do. Maybe she is going to get out of this mess too, just like she and her girls have gotten out of their other messes in the past. Cos she is a boss bitch, with or without a gang friend.

**Author's Note:**

> whoops didn't realise some of the formatting had been eaten, updated with italics for emphases


End file.
